The List Of Seven (18 page)

Heavy curtains were drawn in the high-ceilinged room, broadening the somber mood set by ponderous medieval furnishings. Dust lay deep. A musk of urine and fear-sweat lathered the thick atmosphere. The floor was littered with broken cups and plates and the remains of old meals: bones, crusts of

biscuit. Bladed weapons and a tarnished and dented coat of arms hung above the weak fire sputtering in the fireplace.

Nicholson crossed to the mantel, feverishly rubbing His hands together. "How about some brandy?" he asked, plucking the stopper from a cut-crystal decanter and sloppily filling two tumblers without waiting for a reply. "I'm having some." He greedily gulped down half a ration and poured a refill before conveying the second glass to Sparks. "Cheers, then."

"Thanks ever so," said Sparks disinterestedly, making himself comfortable in front of the fire.

"Shall we have your man go below stairs?" said Nicholson, lurching into a seat across from Sparks and slurping his drink. "I'm sure Ruskin could use the help, the incompetent podge."

"No," Sparks replied, with just the right tinge of listless authority. "I may need him."

"Very good," said Nicholson, eagerly deferring to the superior rank suggested by Sparks's indifference. "Tell me, how was the journey down?"

"Tiring."

Nicholson nodded like a marionette. He sat on the edge of his chair, eyes wide with empty enthusiasm, took another floppy drink, and wiped his moist lips with his sleeve. "So it's New Year's then, is it?"

"Hmm," replied Sparks, gazing apathetically around the room.

"Do you see my boots?" He held up his dressing gown like a dance-hall coquette, raising a foot and wiggling it before them. "Cork-soled. They do not conduct electricity. Three pairs of socks. No, sir. No e-lec-tro-cu-tion for me. Even if it will make the trains run faster. Ha!"

Sparks demonstrated the wherewithal to recognize this as a remark to which there was no proper response. Nicholson collapsed back in his chair as if every other idea had been drained from his head. Then, furiously animated by an impulse of abject courtesy, Nicholson sprang from his seat, grabbed from the mantel a red Oriental lacquered box, ran to Sparks grinning like a deranged monkey, and with a flourish snapped it open. "Smoke, Baron?"

Sparks sniffed sourly, picked out a cigar as if it were a foul kipper, and held it poised in front of his face. Nicholson's hands flew wildly through his gown until he found a match, casually struck it against the box, and held it for Sparks. Sparks puffed and rolled the cigar delicately around in his mouth, evening out its ignition.

"From Trinidad," said Nicholson, lighting one for himself as he sat back down. "Father has a plantation down there. Wanted me to run the bleeding place for him. Can you imagine? Ha!"

"Bloody hot," Sparks offered, with token empathy.

"Bloody hot," he amplified. "Bloody hot, and the niggers steal you blind besides. Bloody backward sods with their native smells and their chanting at night and their black faces sweating. But may I tell you? Beautiful women. Bee-you-tce-ful women."

"Really."

"Whores, every one of them, even with little tar babies hanging round their necks like macaques in the bugging zoo. They'll drop their knickers in the street for the change in your vest pocket," said Nicholson, hoarse with illicit carnality. "You could have yourself a go down there, I'm here to say. Fancy a little dark meat on your dolly mops, you could have a bit of fair sport, let me tell you, that's a bit of tropical splendor, that is. Ha!" He brushed his hand licentiously along his crotch and poured another brandy. "I could do with some sport about now; satisfy the inner man. Comes a point you don't much care what sort of package it comes by way of, either." He winked at Sparks suggestively.

The idea of Lady Nicholson as his spouse, that her handsome refinement had ever been subject to the vicissitudes of this baboon's degeneracy, filled Doyle with moral outrage. If some unspeakable horror was hot on the heels of this besotted wastrel, he was suddenly of a mind to pick up an andiron and finish the job himself.

"How is your father, the Earl?" asked Sparks, his tone betraying no reaction or judgment.

"Still alive!" said Nicholson, as if it were the funniest thing imaginable. "Ha! Clinging to life, the mean bastard! No title for young Charles here, living on a pittance, tied to the old man's purse strings—and you don't think that's the way he likes it? You don't think the thought of me scraping by, hardly able to sustain my house with the barest necessities, doesn't treble his heart at night when the Angel of Death

hovers? Ha! Spite in his veins. Gone scatty. Spite and ice water and horse piss and why isn't he dead yet\" In a paroxysm of wrath, Nicholson flung his tumbler into the fireplace and jumped repeatedly up and down, knees reaching to his shoulders, spinning and screaming in the grip of an infantile frenzy.

Doyle and Sparks stole a look that wondered just how hazardous a lunatic the man was. Then, just as suddenly as he'd begun raving, Nicholson snapped out of his fit and strode to the mantel for another tumbler, which he calmly filled, all the while gaily singing a chorus from the latest Gilbert and Sullivan.

"And how's your wife?" Sparks asked.

Nicholson stopped humming, his back to them.

"Lady Nicholson. How is she?"

"My wife," Nicholson said, coldly.

"That's right. I saw her recently in London."

"You saw her."

"Yes. She wasn't looking very well."

"Not well."

"Not well at all. Her color was very poor."

What is he on about? thought Doyle.

"Her color was poor," said Nicholson, his back still turned to them. He put a hand in the pocket of his gown.

"Poor to positively unhealthy, if you ask me. Perhaps she was worried about your son. How is your son?" An unmistakable antagonism was creeping into Sparks's tone.

"My son."

"I say," said Sparks, with a chuckle, "do you just parrot back the words when you're asked a polite question, or didn't your father ever teach you to answer them properly?"

Nicholson turned back to Sparks. He was holding a pistol. His lips curled in a malicious smile.

"Who are you?" Nicholson asked.

"So you won't answer—"

"She sent you, didn't she?"

"You're confused."

"My wife sent you—you're her lover, aren't you? The filthy whore—"

"Mind your words carefully—"

"You're fucking her, aren't you, don't try to deny it—"

"Put that gun down, you stupid boy!" shouted Sparks with ringing authority, without moving a muscle. "Put it down this instant!"

Nicholson froze like a dog hearing a whistle above the range of human hearing. The twisted smile melted off his face, revealing the bereft, self-pitying mask of an unloved child. He lowered the gun.

"Now, young man, you will answer properly when you're spoken to," Sparks said.

"I'm sorry," whimpered Nicholson.

Sparks rose quickly, snatched the gun from Nicholson's hand, and slapped him twice, hard, across the face. Nicholson crumpled to his knees and began to weep like a baby. Sparks emptied the chambers of the pistol, pocketed the shells, and tossed the gun to the floor. He grabbed Nicholson by the lapels and pulled him roughly to his feet.

"If you ever speak rudely to me again," Sparks said intently, "or speak of your wife rudely, or make any more crude remarks on any subject whatsoever while in my presence, you will be very severely punished. Do I make myself clear, boy?"

"You can't speak to me that way!" Nicholson sniveled. Sparks shoved him back into a chair, where he landed with a startled cry. His red weeping eyes were fixed on Sparks, who picked up his walking stick and advanced on him.

"You are a mean and wicked child—"

"I'm not either!"

"Hold out your hands, Charles."

"You can't make me—"

"Hold them out this instant."

Whimpers bubbling from his lips, Charles offered up his trembling hands, palms raised.

"How many does our naughty boy here deserve, Gompertz?" Sparks asked Doyle, flexing the stick in his hands.

"I should give him one more chance to be cooperative, sir, before administering any reinforcement," Doyle said, not bothering to quell his revulsion at Nicholson's utter collapse.

"Right. Did you hear Gompertz, Charles? He's suggesting I be merciful. Do you think that's a very good idea?"

"Y-y-y-yes, sir."

Sparks whacked him heavily across the palms. Nicholson howled.

"Where is your wife?" Sparks asked.

"I don't know—"

Sparks hit him again.

"Ahh! London, London, I think. I haven't seen her in three months."

"Where is your son?"

"She took him," said Nicholson, sobbing, tears and snot running freely down his face.

"Have you seen your son since?"

"No, I swear!"

"Why did you build the wall, Charley?"

"Because of her."

"Because of your wife?"

"Yes."

"Did you build it after she left?"

Nicholson nodded.

Sparks raised the cane. "Why?"

"Because I'm afraid of her."

The cane crashed down on Nicholson's hands again. "You are a very obstinate boy: Why are you afraid of your wife, Charley?"

"Because ... she worships Satan."

"You're afraid of her because she worships Satan?"

"She worships Satan, and she consorts with devils." Sparks hit him hard again across the palms. "It's true, it's true, I swear to Jesus it's true," Nicholson cried out miserably. His ability to offer continued resistance was absolutely shattered. Doyle could see that Sparks realized it; he leaned down beside Nicholson now, his voice boring into him like a drill bit.

"What does your wife do that makes you so afraid?"

"She makes the bad things come."

"What bad things are those, Charley?"

"The things that come at night."

"Is that why you built the wall, Charley? To keep the bad things out?"

"Yes."

"Is that what all the salt is for?"

"Yes, yes. It hurts them."

"What kind of things are they?"

"I don't know, I've never seen them—"

"But you've heard them, haven't you, at night?"

"Yes. Please don't hurt me anymore, I'm begging you," Nicholson groveled, trying to wrap himself around Sparks's boot.

"You sold some land of yours last year, Charley. Quite a lot of land, do you remember that?" said Sparks, kicking him away. "Answer me!"

"I don't remember—"

"Listen to me: You sold some land in the north that was deeded to you; it belonged to your family. You sold it to a man: General Drummond."

"The General?" Nicholson looked up, stupid and grateful at the sound of something familiar.

"Do you remember, Charley? Do you remember the General?"

"The General came here. He came with my wife."

"The General is a friend of your wife's, is he?"

"Yes, yes, they're good friends. The General's a nice man. He brings me sweets and caramels. He brought me a pony once. A dappled gray. I named him Wellington," Nicholson babbled, retreating further into childhood. Whatever starch had kept his adult personality intact throughout the siege of Topping evaporated before their eyes.

"He made you sign some things, didn't he, Charley, the last time the General was here. Legal documents. Some pieces of paper."

"Yes, so many, so many papers. They said I had to sign, or he'd take away my pony," he said, beginning to cry again.

"And immediately after you signed these papers, that's when your wife left you, isn't it? She left with the General?"

"Yes, sir."

"And she took your son with her, didn't she?"

"Y-y-yes, sir."

"How long were you married?"

"Four years."

"Did she live here with you at Topping that entire time?"

"No. She came and went."

"Where did she go?"

"She never told me."

"What did your wife do before you married her?"

Nicholson shook his head, drawing an honest blank.

"Did she ever tell you anything about her family?"

"She said her family owned a ... publishing company."

"In London?" Doyle asked involuntarily.

"Yes, in London," said Nicholson, now indiscriminately servile.

"Where in London, Charley?" said Sparks.

"I went there once. Across from the big museum—"

"Russell Street?"

Nicholson nodded. There was a loud hammering at the door.

"Out the window," shouted Barry from the hallway.

From somewhere below, they heard the sound of breaking glass. Sparks moved to the window and drew the curtain. Doyle joined him.

The figure in black from the inn at Cambridge was moving across the courtyard toward the front door, a half-dozen gray hoods fanning out across the grounds behind him.

"More of them this time," said Sparks calmly.

"Is it her?" cried Nicholson in terror. "It is, isn't it? She's come for me!"

"We're going to leave you now, Charles," said Sparks, not without some kindness. "Load your gun, lock the door after us. don't open it for anyone, and happy New Year to you."

Sparks tossed the bullets toward Nicholson and stepped rapidly to the door. Working together, Sparks and Doyle had iie locks undone in moments, and they moved out to join Barry in the hall. Doyle's last glimpse before Barry pulled the door shut behind them was of Lord Nicholson keening hysterically, scrambling on his hands and knees trying to gather up :he scattered bullets.

"Brought in the bags," Barry said as they ran down the hall. "Went back to feed the horses; that bleedin' growler's flyin' hell-bent down the lane."

"All the exits blocked?" Sparks said, drawing out his blade.

"Yeh. We've lost the coach. More of them hoods this go-around."

"Did you manage to open that door in the pantry?"

"I've had me hands full, haven't I?" said Barry, showing a bit of crust.

"Quickly, Barry, they won't be long getting in."

"Shouldn't we bring Lord Nicholson?" asked Doyle.

"He's done enough damage."

"But they'll kill him—"